A Medic's Tale, page 2
Later in the second year, there appeared to be an inexplicable problem with the results of my biochemistry paper. Stellar marks had apparently not been attained. With a company of friends, we presented ourselves to the designated lecturer. The intention was to convince the notable teacher that a grievous miscarriage had obviously occurred and the tally for my undoubted masterpiece was simply a clerical and accounting error.
It just so happened we were acquainted with the person concerned having by some manner of supernatural intervention imbibed at the same drinking establishment the previous evening. It transpired on that night that he had been involved in an experiment on fluid input and output. As a biochemist, this was not too unrealistic. Obviously, he had required the assistance of several randomly picked volunteers. After a frank and honest discussion, lasting at least five milliseconds, the unfortunate situation was amicably resolved and yours truly was able to progress with my obviously illustrious medical career. Shudder the thought and the quaking of the medical foundations if another disastrous avenue had been decided upon, what might have transpired to the Wilson legacy. The answer is minimalist.
As is the norm, there was the usual pairing of students within our year. On one occasion we were all totally surprised by a certain coupling. Up until this time, we had all considered them rather quiet and reserved. It occurred while in one of our lectures, if I remember correctly, on the reproductive organs and related matters. The girl of this liaison was asked by our redoubtable lecturer, albeit in a kindly manner, the number of sperm in a male’s output and the appropriate volume of seminal fluid. Obviously, the numbers in the former are enormous and, in the latter, somewhat considerably smaller. Our heroine simply amazed us all by stating that the number of sperm were about five to ten and the volume millions. Almost instantly the assemble multitude lapsed into a hushed silence, considered reverential in quality, as we contemplated the results of her and her partner being together. It was immediately assumed that he went about wearing his underpants outside his trousers! At lunchtime people were observed trying to imitate Superman.
Truthfully speaking, our histology lectures could not be recorded as setting the world alight. On one occasion, our somewhat curmudgeonly inquisitor asked one of the assembled groups, seated in the rather substantial lecture theatre, where we spent many a doleful time, the type of epithelium in the vagina. The quick reply from ‘the chap in the bright-red top’, as he had been labelled by our esteemed mentor, was, “Tight.” This was not the response that had been envisaged. It was greeted by, as one would anticipate, gleeful titters by the juvenile masses. The respondee was not referred to again in such an endearing manner. Indeed, there were mutterings from the front of the class and from behind a lectern that this person was not as smart as he thought. May I strenuously point out that not all the discourse and witty repartee revolved around the nether regions.
It is widely acknowledged, generally, that doctors have atrocious handwriting. May I propose a possible reason for this, at least, in my era. We attended tutorials; generally they were well supported, with the lecture theatre almost full to capacity. The assigned lecturer would suddenly appear entering stage right, give us a cursory nod and then start his/her mission that was designed to provide us with a plethora of specific information. Well and good but it was never possible to transcribe all the important pieces of material in a coherent fashion. Hence, we resorted to various forms of hieroglyphics, our own special codes. On returning sometime later when required to decipher our inevitable scribblings, it often proved a tedious, if not nigh on impossible, task. Although at a much later period I attended a courtroom/medico-legal symposium having been reliably informed by an eminent QC that, despite evidence to the contrary and against all logic, he witnessed (what an apt reference), many a doctor skilfully and precisely decode their notes made years before and utterly unreadable by other souls.
In the same auditoriums we were occasionally shown patients with unusual or advanced pathology. I still remember a poor frail lady who was wheeled out in front of the assembled multitude displaying an advanced carcinoma of her left breast. She had been too frightened to go and see her doctor until the smell from the fungating tissue became apparent. By then, the possibility of some form of surgery, even remedial, had passed. I am sure she was asked if she did not mind being seen by trainee doctors. Although I am unsure that she was fully cognisant of her presentation to so large a group and it was an arduous and unappealing ordeal for both parties. It was a sorry situation in more ways than one. We were intruding into this lady’s life in a very private matter and you could not help recollecting and remembering this was not accomplished in the most dignified manner.
A small episode among all the daily routine was the annual Rag Day, when students venture throughout the town and its environs cajoling people to part with their money in a worthy cause. To recall I wore something rather gaudy and totally unbecoming. Somewhat similar to a jester’s outfit, complete with the tight-fitting leggings. No more need be said. The reason to mention such poor sartorial elegance on my part is that as part of my wanderings I ended up in the underground of a previously unknown building, only to discover, on ascending the stairs, it was the nurses’ home. One was forcibly escorted from the premises by what could only be described as a rather large, somewhat overbearing and ungrateful woman, whom I believe was the matron. A person you discover as a student and junior doctor not to be taken lightly and rarely crossed without unfortunate consequences on your part.
We were let loose on an unsuspecting world – I refer to our time on the various wards – in our third year. In those days we had fresh, crisp, white coats and new stethoscopes. At least we looked like doctors. Oh, those starry-eyed days far removed from now, with shirt sleeves rolled up, no ties and most definitely not sitting on the bed. The world was our oyster and we were poised and ready to cure all ills. As with most students, I remember the less than approving looks that came our way. I realise that we could be a hindrance at times as the real staff continued their daily routines. It may have been our youthful exuberance that, on occasion, was just too much for all concerned. Later in our differing attachments we had the privilege of experiencing numerous staff accommodation in the hospitals we visited. As you can imagine hardly five stars; in all fairness though, they had a roof and a toilet but not necessarily in the same building. The accommodation did vary widely from post to post, with reasonable bedrooms and communal kitchen to some that, shall we say, had seen better times. For these, a demolition order may have been in order.
As with all students, there were local drinking establishments which we frequented, usually at the end of the week. My mates – to a man, my old pals from school – would congregate together and have a few drinks, referred to as ‘bevvies’. I have to say that we were raucous on occasions but some may be surprised to be informed we were not wild drunken louts. The two mainly frequented taverns were affectionately referred to as ‘The Egg’ and ‘The Bot’, shortened from the Eglantine and the Botanic Inns. They remain to this very day and doubtless still providing the numerous customers with a good night out. The usual theme was to go to one or other of these celebrated pubs, which were always heaving, and find out where ‘the party’ for that evening was being held. It was amazing the number of such events we attended without an invite! We all looked out for each other, no matter what happened, it was good to have such loyal friends. We had the good fortune not to be in the era of drugs. It really was an innocent time when we had simple fun and enjoyed each other’s company. They are times and memories that will always stay with me. We usually had a designated driver – very sensible for such a group of naïve students.
Most times at the end of the evening we would descend upon one or other’s home and indulge in tea or coffee and chip butties; all very healthy. The lads, as we called ourselves, had known each other for years since we all attended the same educational establishment and played rugby together. Four of us played in the same team for the school. I had the nickname of Wilbur. I feel obliged to name these swashbuckling heroes of yesteryear. They are, in no particular order, either of preference or of friendship, and for the sake of privacy, by initials only CW, MS, CP, EK and IB. They are all true and good and will always be, despite the distance that separates us, my old school buddies. As we grew older and started having girlfriends, we kept together and had a good rapport and bond between us. Unfortunately, my medical career put an abrupt halt to meeting up with them on such activities. As many a weekend on call prohibited my going out and joining in the festivities. Despite that, most attended each other’s weddings and, as you might anticipate, reciprocated as best man. One of my mates was also in medicine and is an anaesthetist. He would be extremely good as he had such a relaxed, almost laissez-faire type of manner about him. Just in case he ever reads this, that is you CW. On the other hand, I was always impatient, often a trait of surgeons, who want everything done now, if not yesterday! The rest of my friends from those good days have taken up other roles. Most still live in Northern Ireland but one resides in London. As time has gone by, many of our parents have died in the passing years and we have reassembled at these solemn moments to say hello and remember our happy, carefree days. I still think of them and in the future, if time permits, we will be able to meet again under better circumstances and enjoy more memorable occasions. It may be as we approach and enter retirement or our collective seventieth birthdays; we may arrange an extra special event and reminisce about the good old days. To pretend once more we are those youthful, devil-may-care lads about town. In our dreams, dashing, swaggering musketeers gallant to a man. Doubtless you envisage a certain degree of delusional qualities abound but no harm done and fun while it lasts. Sadly, life has not permitted the heady thoughts of above. We move on, our lives and circumstances alter. In some cases, work, families, grandchildren and the associated ramifications, particularly distance, preclude reunions. Even the occasional Christmas card slowly disappears and memories dissipate in the business of life. Wherever you are, God bless and remain healthy, young at heart. It may be better to have the past unsullied by ageing, decrepit old chaps – which seems to refer to me.
A notable moment etched in my memory transpired when four of us were travelling in a Ford Cortina. When, as young drivers tend to do, I was pretending to be Stirling Moss or a similar racing personality. On coming round a corner, we went flying past a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (now referred to as the Northern Ireland Police Authority), who was standing firmly in the middle of the road with his hand in the air in a vain attempt to stop us. This was in the days of frequent disruption with daily shootings and bombings, particularly in and around Belfast. As you might imagine, the contents of such a vehicle aroused more than a degree of interest. I rapidly reversed the vehicle and apologised to the police officer. He demanded our identities and the situation appeared to have been retrieved when one of my so-called mates jokingly uttered the immortal words, “It was lucky we did not have the drugs with us.” You could possibly imagine the demeanour of the constabulary transformed from one of slight annoyance to downright indignation. We were tersely advised to disembark from the car and to do so carefully with hands on the roof. No other action on our part was likely as automatic and handguns from both police and army were trained on us. Hardly our most glorious moment. After what seemed like an eternity and having been frisked and the car inspected from bumper to bumper, we were allowed on our way. My subsequent conversation with the smart-arse, I mean anal retentive – excuse the nomenclature – was quite animated and we were all relieved to continue down the road and disappear into the distance without further incident.
There were many consultant ward rounds; some enjoyable, others to be endured. This of course applies to both parties. On one such round we were accompanying one of the general physicians. We were at the bedside of a patient who was pregnant. Yours truly, on relaying the lady’s condition, stated she was, ‘slightly pregnant’. The consultant stated, somewhat irately, she was either ‘pregnant or not but could not be slightly’, as I had indicated. My retort was that as she was only in the early stages, a couple of months to be precise, she was slightly less pregnant than if she had been eight months pregnant. From the response, it appeared that my senior did not concur and went so far as to suggest that I was being impertinent.
I am reminded of another episode, while on an extensive ward round, when a patient with an orthopaedic problem had rather unreasonably and with no thought to the orthopaedic consultant attending, a medical condition to compound the matter – excuse another terrible pun. The consultant somehow was either erroneously provided with or had mistakenly obtained the patient’s ECG. He was, it seemed, about to wax lyrical in relation to this novel piece of clinical material, when some smart individual pointed out it was upside down. No further illumination was forthcoming from our abashed leader.
It is surely quite reasonable, I am sure you would agree, that one can celebrate a birthday. So, this was the viewpoint of a friend who considered that his twenty-first was due special attention. He had decided that the day merited his complete undivided efforts and at lunchtime, between lectures and practical sessions, resided in a well-known drinking establishment and appeared to be in training for the Olympic games. With the assistance of his erstwhile lifelong buddies, myself included, he managed to return to the department. This had not occurred without incident, particularly one involving a police constable and a piece of public property. The story did not end at this juncture; probably not being entirely in control of his usual common sense, he insisted on attending the afternoon practical session. It took an almost refined degree of deftness, if not cunning, by various persons to avoid his verbal outbursts and other utterances from being detected by the attending professor. As luck would have it, he decided that sleeping, in the form of a late siesta, was warranted. It was then we discovered that his boast of having heavy bones – because, in his perspective, ‘I am not at all overweight’ became all too apparent. Mighty manful efforts were made to avoid him falling onto the laboratory floor. It is likely that certain custodians of such a stout heart will suffer from back problems later in life. As you can imagine, in hindsight, it would have been much wiser to have left him elsewhere and forgo his inappropriate desire to complete his studies for the day. But there was, as with all of us, an obvious unquenchable thirst for further knowledge, no matter the obstacle.
Whilst making his efforts to return to the medical centre, he encountered a young lady and, despite the fact he had no previous acquaintance with her. promised to vouchsafe his undying love; this was quickly spurned in no uncertain terms. It did bring to mind a story involving Sir Winston Churchill. He had been attending an important meeting, the exact nature of which I am unsure. However, in the telling, it is not of major import. The eminent politician was in the process of making his way to retire for the night but not as quietly or in a gentlemanly manner as would be expected. It transpires that a rather good and vintage beverage – champagne, I believe – had been imbibed to even more than the normal levels of excess. A certain female personage was upset by his behaviour and told him directly. He was not impressed and retorted, “Madam, you are ugly.”
She instantly responded, “Sir, you are drunk.”
To which his witty retort was, “At least I will be sober in the morning.”
And so, to bed.
When on breaks from term time, I managed a range of jobs to supplement the student grant. May I point out that the grant was not excessive and I was always having to ask my beloved parents for financial assistance. This continued unabated until leaving university at the wonderfully tender age of nearly twenty-five. I really hated relying on my parents because, simply, they had done so much before. It made one feel a bit of a burden and unfair to continue what seemed like further imposition. Of course, they never moaned or baulked at the prospect of continual support. I am sure many people of my age and similar educational background will understand and concur with the sentiments. The first of these varied excursions into the real world involved working for a local paper that published a telephone, address and occupation directory. This involved the novelty of knocking on people’s doors and enquiring of their present employment. One received some interesting replies. I remember a lady telling me her husband was a greaser. In my naivety, I was about to say that I was not acquainted with him and this may be an unfair indictment on the person concerned. She must have realised my unease as she immediately elaborated and described his work as applying layers of grease to the massive anchors and affiliated pieces of equipment on the large vessels built in the local shipyard.
Other roles involved working as a postal worker in the Christmas holidays. This was good fun and in those heady days before technology intervened you had to acquire the art of being able to accurately deposit the letters into various large hessian sacks situated near at hand. I am proud to say most went into the appropriate postal code area. More than once I worked as a hospital porter. It was rather illuminating and the real porters proved to be quite a quixotic group. It allowed an insight to a different avenue of life. They accepted me willingly and were most helpful in showing me the ropes and how to carry out the requisite duties in a most efficient manner, thus allowing a rest whenever possible. I am not wishing to be disparaging or indeed patronising but they were dreadful at simple mathematics. Yet when it came to the returns on a triple, yankee or whatever the betting parlance involved, they could calculate the answer quicker than any computer. I have sad reflections on some of my encounters with them. We would be paid on Friday, having received our payslip and the long-awaited cash that accompanied the paperwork. One or two of them would then proceed to the local and probably nearest tavern in association with the next-door bookmakers and, in all too brief a time, manage to spend their week’s wages. It was not unusual for colleagues to be tapped for some funds to enable them to continue for the next few days. Especially as it was known that the lady of the house, not unreasonably, did expect and anticipate some financial input at the end of the week and if not, well, you may imagine the outcome. They were kind and benevolent to me, a stranger, an outsider in their midst. They were not nasty and did not take advantage by giving me the lousy or unwanted duties. I remember them fondly for their kindness to me, an interloper in their own private world.
